It almost seemed to the observers that the smoke was beaten down by the passage of lead, angular lines appearing in the redness, and often, other redness appeared marking the fatal passage of heavy bullets.
Experienced observers noted that the central Invader had its bomb bay open, and it was this aircraft that released eight 500lbs bombs, the weight loss causing it to swiftly rise above its comrades, receiving a line of tracer through its open belly for its trouble.
The three bombers turned sharply to starboard, moving over friendly territory, angrily pursued by a hail of Soviet bullets.
The fuses ran their course and exploded.
Rostov-5 rose into the air, or that was how it seemed to Knocke through his binoculars, the force of the bombs raising up earth, stone, metal and flesh, before it all came crashing back down again.
8th Compagnie’s commander gave the order and his second in command charged forward, leading 7th Compagnie onto their objective.
The French officer shouted for all he was worth and plunged into the cloud of dust, closely followed by the 7th’s legionnaires, shouting and screaming in the charge.
A Soviet guardsman staggered out of the smoke and dust, his hands holding his ruined face, ears bleeding from the concussion of the explosions.
He was shot down, and the legionnaires ran on.
A dead Soviet officer, his legs neatly severed at the top of both thighs, stood erect in a shallow pathway, acting as a diminutive gatekeeper and attracting humorous shouts as the legionnaires swept on.
The Invaders lined themselves up.
7th Compagnie pushed on, dispatching a few shocked guardsmen as they progressed.
The Invaders approached.
“Anton to Adler. Call the eagles off. Friendlies on target. Repeat, call the eagles off!”
Those on the command net who heard Knocke’s words realised that a disaster was in the making, their commander’s voice carrying a fear and worry that none could miss.
8th Compagnie’s leader could only watch in horror as the USAAF bombers approached again.
All three opened fire together and ceased fire just as quickly, flying straight over the wrecked position without dropping any ordnance.
“Adler to Anton. Attack aborted. Eagles are low on fuel and returning to base, over.”
The radiomen in the Command Panther heard a defined sigh of relief from their leader, and they shared one together.
The Invaders had fired for a split second, enough time to get nearly two hundred rounds on target. Enough to kill three legionnaires and wound five others.
7th Compagnie pressed on finding no resistance, dispatching a wounded man here and there, until they reached the edge of the position and could overlook the road to the south-east.
7th Compagnie’s Senior NCO beckoned the radioman forward and reported in, confirming that their mission was accomplished, and also that he was in charge, the Invaders having killed the 8th Kompagnie’s French officer.
Behind schedule, 8th Compagnie assaulted Rostov-6, taking the position with ease.
Von Arnesen’s group was now down to thirteen on their feet. Whilst none of the others were fatally wounded, they were out of the fight, and the Soviet resistance was not getting less; far from it.
Allowing his men a few moments to get their breath back, he risked a swift look over the edge and saw just enough to know that they were close to their target.
He also saw a movement in the trench to their front and realised it was helmeted heads moving swiftly.
“Achtung! Counter-attack!”
His warning made all the difference.
Two experienced legionnaires, one, a man who had learned his soldering with the Leibstandarte-SS, and his loader, similarly versed in the art of war by his service with the SS-Wiking, had just finished preparing their weapon for the new assault. They quickly deployed, in text book fashion, the loader kneeling, the gunner placing the weapon on the offered shoulder.
The MG42 had a phenomenal rate of fire, so much so that it super-heated the barrel if fired without pause. The German Army issued instructions to reduce rates of fire, and to use the weapon in short bursts.
Experienced or not, the gunner decided to ignore that particular instruction, and proceeded to unload the entire two hundred and fifty round belt into the group of Guardsmen that charged round the corner, holding grenades that remained firmly within dead hands.
The bullets literally cut some of the men to pieces.
The belt gone, the two machine-gunners dived for cover as the armed grenades started to go off amongst the recently fallen, transforming that piece of trench into something completely unspeakable.
More Soviet soldiers yet to emerge from the angled trench fell to shrapnel, and those that remained had no stomach for a further attempt.
‘No time like now then.’
Von Arnesen rose swiftly, the pain stabbing his thigh and causing him to wince.
“Forward Menschen! No stopping, press hard!”
The two gunners already had another belt fitted and dragged another from a Legion corpse nearby.
At the front ran an ex-Hitler Youth soldier, screaming at the top of his juvenile voice whilst firing short bursts from his MP40 into the backs of the broken Soviet infantry.
He tripped and fell but the attack didn’t falter, a French Caporal-Chef took up the lead, his recently acquired PPSh pushing the enemy on quicker than before.
The trench took a few more turns until they could see the log bunker just ahead.
At the next turn, a Soviet officer had stopped some of his men and they rallied.
The caporal-chef flew back round the trench corner, the impact of the bullets knocking him off his feet.
Through bloody lips he screamed as the Russians used his legs as a target, exposed as they were.
Von Arnesen and the medic dragged the man by his straps, but were horrified to see both his feet detach, severed by the stream of bullets.
“Grenate!”
A stick grenade was thrust into his hands and the cord was pulled. It was airborne with seconds, landing on the top of the trench and doing no more than distracting the defenders.
He risked another look over the top.
“Menschen, stay ready to charge. I’m going over the top here, you,” he pointed to the ex-Hitler Youth soldier, “Young Fischer, I want you over that side. Come down in the trench behind them, but let’s not shoot each other. Klar?”
Aloisius Fischer grinned like the child he was.
“Alles Klar, Sturmbannfuhrer!”
“And you all stay ready and attack when they have us to worry about. In the meantime, keep them busy as soon as we move. Klar?”
It was clear, and no further explanation was needed.
Von Arnesen checked his MP40 and took up another grenade, a British Mills bomb.
Fischer put a new round magazine on his submachine gun.
Both men ensured that their pistols were ready and correct, as such a weapon would be a life-saver and a life-taker in the environment they were about to create.
“Ready?”
A nod was sufficient.
“Go!”
Von Arnesen leapt up and out of the trench, half expecting to be instantly cut down by machine-guns.
Nothing.
He could see Fischer moving like a Gazelle, nearly halfway already, and so he drove himself forward hard.
Fischer was close to the trench now, and had his grenade ready, waiting for his leader.